


Before the Day Is Done

by zythepsary



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, M/M, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zythepsary/pseuds/zythepsary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He's going to die here, like all the rest. This thing will play with his corpse until there's nothing left.</em>
</p><p>Soldier: 76 meets the Reaper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Day Is Done

**Author's Note:**

> hello, Overwatch!
> 
> This fic came about when I was thinking about what other animated shorts I'd like to see. I kept coming back to the same idea – Soldier: 76 encountering Reaper, intercut with flashbacks to happier times. So I wrote it.
> 
> Big thanks to Lore for the beta and encouragement!

Rain slips from the sky in great buckets and seeps through his jacket, leaving him shivering. He stumbles down the alleyway, clutching at the hole in his belly. His enemies are three blocks away, unconscious, but they'll have a red trail to follow if he's not quick about this.

He scans the street as he walks. Deli. Apartments. Antique store. Another deli. A warehouse—

Finally.

He presses his palm against his stomach, sucking in a quick breath. Soon.

He circles the warehouse, searching. The front door is not an option; security cameras and card readers will be too difficult to avoid, and he needs to move quickly. There is probably a door on the roof, but he doesn't think he can scale the fire escape.

Behind a dumpster, he finds a door, propped open with a plastic chair. There is an ashtray and several cigarettes on the seat, drowning in rainwater. He heaves the chair up, balancing it awkwardly against his uninjured side, and staggers into the warehouse.

His visor hums, searching for any heat signatures, and finds nothing. Still, he checks twice before finding a suitable place to rest: a corner, with full view of the main exit and shelves on each side that reach the ceiling. He fumbles for the biotic field, cursing, and collapses—

*

—onto the floor. Jack groans, blinking in the sterile light. He can hear their superiors murmuring behind the glass.

"Stop coming at me like that," says Reyes. He rolls his neck until it cracks. "I'll just keep hitting you."

They have been here for two hours every day this week, testing for improvements to their motor functions and reaction time. Their superiors would probably get better results if they sparred with a combat sim or someone who hasn't gotten the injections, but Jack doesn't mention that. He's a good soldier. He knows better.

"If you say so," says Jack, heaving himself up. The mat is cold and dark, splattered with sweat and blood from previous matches. It sticks uncomfortably to his bare feet. "You aren't changing, either."

"There's this dumb farm boy who keeps throwing the same punch," says Reyes. He raises his fists, but he does not hide his grin. "He's making it easy for me."

The intercom clicks. Someone instructs, "Again."

Jack settles into a comfortable stance. They circle each other, throwing quick jabs. Reyes doesn't flinch.

They're stronger. They don't get hurt anymore.

He feigns left, watching Reyes's eyes track him, and throws a right hook. Again. Reyes sidesteps it, like he did before, but this time Jack throws a wild kick at his legs. He stumbles—and that's enough for Jack to get a solid hit into Reyes's side, hard and fast.

Reyes crumples to the floor. Jack barely feels the impact against his knuckles.

"Better," Reyes croaks. Behind him, the door—

*

—opens. The sound of the storm swells around his ears. He moves: rifle up, visor on, ears strained for footsteps.

There aren't any. No heat signatures or foreign sounds. Just the smell of rain, but _something_ is there. He can feel it. He listens, waiting.

The biotic field is still stitching his belly back together. It's a strange warmth, curling into his skin from the inside. Slowly. Painfully. His injuries are too severe. He'll need to use another, or find a doctor. If he had Angela's staff—

But he doesn't. It's an unnecessary thought. He buries it.

Footsteps.

"I heard you," he says. He keeps his rifle steady. "We can do this now, or after I'm stitched up."

There is no answer but the wind, whistling through the warehouse. The back of his neck prickles. Something cold touches—

*

—his cheek. Jack wishes he could open his eyes, but every inch of his body _aches_. A possible side-effect, they said, and now half the recruits were confined to the barracks. Three died yesterday. More won't survive the night.

"I don't regret this," Jack mumbles. Something shrieks under his skin. He's already sweating through the sheets.

Reyes doesn't say anything. He presses a cold washcloth against Jack's face.

He hasn't left since this whole mess started, even after their handlers told him to. Jack is grateful to have a friend. He can't move—can barely _think_ —and Reyes is still here, listening to him when he rambles and weeps.

This was worth it. They will learn from this. His corpse. The serum will be perfected.

"Gabriel," Jack croaks. Reyes's hand stills on his cheek. "Tell my moth—"

Reyes curses and grips his jaw. It hurts. Oh, _god_ , it hurts. There are daggers in those fingers, shoving beyond skin and bone. Pressure swells behind his eyes, lifting into his skull. Jack swallows a scream.

"Don't," Reyes snaps, and the rest disappears under a gasp. He loosens his hold. "Shit."

It hurts to laugh, but Jack does it anyway. His chest shakes with it.

"You idiot," Jack says, voice muffled by the washcloth.

Reyes tells him to shut up. He tugs the washcloth away and replaces it with a cooler one, pressing it gently to Jack's face. His thumb brushes against Jack's mouth. It could be accidental.

Jack wishes it wasn't.

"It'll be," says Reyes, voice trailing off. He drapes the washcloth over Jack's eyes. The bed dips when he shifts back. "It'll be okay."

Jack's fingers flex. He can hear Reyes clasping his own hands together. Probably resting his elbows on his knees, leaning close so he doesn't have to shout over the others.

He strains to lift his right arm and reach, fingers stretching for familiar callouses. He wants those hands on his cheeks, soothing the pain in his head. Instead, he finds empty space and Reyes's knee, which he grasps tightly. Reyes doesn't say anything.

"Thank you," says Jack. He pushes his thumb into Reyes's knee. The fabric cuts sharply into his skin, but it's a dull pain compared to everything else. "I—"

He swallows, startled. Reyes has covered his hand, palm barely brushing against his knuckles.

"Thank you," Jack says again, tongue thick. He slips his fingers between Reyes's, squeezing.

A man wails for his mother. Glass shatters. Reyes curses and stands, murmuring a quick apology before he sprints away. Jack's arm slips off the bed, colliding with—

*

—the wall, still cold and hard against his back. The _Reaper_ , in the dark coat and white mask, stands beside him, lit up by the sickly red light of his visor.

He doesn't think. He moves, shoving himself away from the wall. The shotgun blast rings in his ears.

He stumbles between the shelves, hand pressed against his bleeding belly while he fires blindly. He needs a better position. Higher ground, maybe. Something out of the Reaper's range. He's seen what that thing does to people.

Soldiers aren't supposed to die like that.

He kicks a shelf over, blocking the Reaper's path, and scales the next. The pain in his side is agonizing, but it's not something he needs to focus on right now. Boxes and papers fall, scattering over the floor. He taps his visor, squeezes the trigger—

Nothing. No signature. Again. He stops, scanning. The wind whistles.

A low chuckle, behind him. How? Doesn't matter. He turns, firing.

And his gun is _gone_ , torn out of his hands. He falls, the Reaper's hands around his—

*

—wrists, pinning him to the mat. Reyes's chest heaves with each breath. Drops of sweat slip off his face, dotting Jack's shirt. His knees are tight against Jack's thighs.

" _Yield_ , Morrison," Reyes says. He squeezes Jack's wrists. "And rest up."

Jack ignores him. After two weeks in bed and another in the infirmary, he needs to do something. The compound is on lockdown until everyone is at full health. No trips into town, no firing range, no combat simulations. There's an old television, a library with a poor selection, and _this_ , which he needs. His reflexes have gone to shit after all that time in bed.

"I yield," Jack lies. He relaxes, letting the fight drain away.

Reyes rolls his eyes and lets go. "Jesus, kid, learn to relax—"

Jack shoves his fingers into Reyes's side. At the surprised yelp, he hooks his leg over Reyes's hip and flips them over. He catches Reyes's hands before he can retaliate. Reyes strains, trying to push back, but Jack holds their hands together in the space between them.

"Stop calling me kid," says Jack. They are mirrored, hands clasped together. "We're the same age."

Reyes's grin is sudden and broad. It makes the bottom of Jack's stomach tilt and disappear.

They stay there, silent and still. Jack can't look away.

"C'mere," Reyes murmurs. He shifts, rolling his hips. "I want you to."

"Oh," says Jack, surprise tightening his voice. He drops Reyes's hands. "Yeah?"

Reyes grabs his ass, digging his fingers in.

"Okay," Jack says, nodding. He leans down, sliding his palm along Reyes's jaw. "Okay, yeah."

It's a _good_ kiss. Reyes's mouth is soft and warm. Day-old stubble rubs against his skin. Hands on his ass, nice and firm, moving him the way Reyes wants. Jack wants it, too. Close. Closer. Another body against—

*

—his, heavy and real, and then it's gone. The Reaper's shadow lingers above him. The mask looks like it's grinning.

He punches into nothing. Dust, for all he knows.

When he tries to stand, the Reaper appears and digs its claws into his visor. He curses, grabbing at its wrist, but this thing is _strong_. The claws are hooked under the mask, tugging.

He's going to die here, like all the rest. This thing will play with his corpse until there's nothing left.

His visor is gone. He's half-blind without it, and his eyes don't adjust well in the darkness. Defeated, he blinks into the empty sea of black and waits for whatever comes next. This thing likes shotguns. Not something he can dodge, especially on his back. Even if he can get up, there's no point in running blind and bleeding into unfamiliar territory.

The fight's leaving him, leaking out of the hole in his belly. All he can hope for is a good opportunity and, failing that, a quick death.

He's ready, if he has to.

The Reaper grunts. The claws are on his face, poking at his scars. It stops. Hesitates.

He takes that second and swings a leg as he rolls, knocking the Reaper back. A shotgun blasts at the space where his body was, but he's on his feet. Running. Fumbling in the dark for his rifle. There's that low chuckle again, tickling his ear.

The door.

He sprints. His belly bleeds. He's getting dizzy.

"Morrison," the Reaper says, voice scraped raw.

When he stops, it laughs. The sound twists his stomach into knots. He hesitates, like the fool he is.

The Reaper doesn't fire. Too busy turning on the lights.

He doesn't move. He should. He should panic. If he isn't going to run, he should at least remember the wild _thing_ with twin shotguns, leaving empty husks behind.

He looks into the warehouse, squinting—

*

—into the blinding light. Jack gazes at the sea of destroyed Bastion units, sighing. A long fight, after a longer day. But it's over, and he feels secure enough to turn his back on them. Amari is still watching the corpses through her scope. He can always feel her eyes, even from a distance.

Gabriel is a few paces away, checking his weapons. Behind him, Reinhardt chats with Torbjörn and Liao. His armor glints in the sunlight. Jack ducks his head to avoid the glare.

"Good work," says Gabriel curtly. Always gruff after a fight. "Your arm?"

Jack looks. There's red, staining through his uniform.

"Huh," he says. He pokes at the little wound. Must've been a ricochet, or poor aim. Those units tend to fire wildly when Amari starts picking them off. "I'm okay."

"Morrison," says Gabriel, exasperated. He reaches for his pack, but Jack shakes his head. "What?"

"Relax," says Jack. He rubs his palm over his arm, searching for any other points of entry. Nothing. "It's just a graze."

Gabriel says nothing. His mouth twists into an unhappy frown.

"Sorry, _sir_ ," Jack says primly, snapping into a salute. Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Won't happen again, _sir_."

Gabriel beckons for him to continue, so he does. He apologizes. He says he'll take better care of himself. He swears up and down that he'll carry more of those new biotic fields. He says he'll make sure the wound heals cleanly.

"Shit, that's enough," says Gabriel, when Jack promises to scrub the latrines back at the base. There's a smile hiding under his goatee. "You good?"

Jack nods. Gabriel takes a step closer. A beat passes, and then he touches Jack's face.

They try not to touch like this in front of the others. Privacy is always a good thing, especially when the press follows their battles. And there's the regs. They're working under special circumstances, but there's still structure and orders to follow. A chain of command. Gabriel is in charge of this squad, so Jack follows his lead.

Gabriel follows him, too.

Jack holds his hand there, linking their fingers together. The close warmth is as good as an embrace. He leans into the touch, watching Gabriel's eyes.

"Tease," Gabriel murmurs. He's still smiling.

Jack turns and kisses the leather, tasting—

*

—smoke and dust, surfacing around the Reaper's coat. Eerie. _Wrong_.

"Morrison," the thing says. The mask is mocking him. "Morrison."

That's not his name anymore. It hasn't been since Zürich, and the fight, and the explosion, and all the smoke and copper and rubble and—

"You don't know me," he says. "I'm just a soldier."

"Jack," the Reaper says, and it sounds _fond_.

He bristles. He's had enough of this thing. It's caused enough trouble. Murdering people across the world. Dragging him so close to death and denying it. Killing old friends of his from another life. Touching his face like he knew it.

"You don't know me," he says again. "I'm—"

The thing starts laughing at him. He swallows the rest.

"Jack," the Reaper says. It disappears into the shadow of the shelves for a moment, and then kicks his visor over to him. His rifle, too. "Run, farm boy."

He doesn't move. There's still those two shotguns. Blood still trickles onto the floor.

"I said, _run_ ," the Reaper snaps. Angry, spitting black smoke. "You die at my hands. Not some dumb thug in a city no one cares about."

"Is that so," he says. Three paces to the visor. Four to the rifle. One to the door. "Then kill me. You've had plenty of chances."

The Reaper moves— _glides_ —and seizes his face with both hands, digging its claws into his scars. The mask should be more absurd up close, looming over him like a childhood nightmare. He can hear labored breathing. The smoke stench mingles with copper. Foul.

" _My_ hands," the Reaper hisses. It presses him into the wall, claws drawing blood. " _Slowly_. I'll make you wait for it. Beg me—"

He fits his hands over the gloved wrists, trying to tug them away. A muted gasp. It strikes the pit of his belly. He moves without thinking and covers the hands instead, curling their fingers together. The mask stares, and the grip relaxes.

He knows these hands.

It can't be. He stares at the empty eyes, wondering. No. That man died, along with him. The voice isn't the same. No, _no_ —

He reaches for the mask.

"Don't," the Reaper says. Quietly. It's still a warning, so he lowers his hands. The Reaper does the same.

His chest aches, and aches.

"I'm sorry," he says. He doesn't know why. He shouldn't be.

The Reaper takes a step back, bowing its head.

Without the mask, it's hard to know if there's a person in there. There is a person _shape_ , but dark smoke spills out of the eyes and mouth. The skin is burned and scarred, stretched thinly over exposed bone. There is nothing in his eyes anymore.

There was, once.

He stares for a long minute. The Reaper allows it.

When he's done, he walks the four paces and picks up his gun and visor.

"I'll see you again," he says, clipping the visor into place. He presses his palm against his belly. "And I will kill you for what you've done."

Gabriel's naked grin is broad, even through the haze of smoke. "You can try."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/_zythepsary) and [Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi.


End file.
